


Love like a winding road

by dreams_for_spring



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, Cunnilingus, Dog park meet cute AU, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but its all about the healing now, very mild references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23197261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreams_for_spring/pseuds/dreams_for_spring
Summary: "I didn't catch your name," Sansa says, trying to sound nonchalant."Jon. Jon Snow." He holds out a bare hand to shake hers."How fitting," she replies, pulling a glove from her hand, instantly regretting her words. "Sorry, I guess you probably get that a lot in the winter."Smooth move, Stark.He lets out a quiet snort. "Yeah, kind of, but I don’t mind it from you."--In which Sansa's dog Lady meets and befriends an albino husky – which is very fortunate, because she would really like to get to know that husky’s owner too.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 121
Kudos: 335





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you all, but I could certainly use some fluff right about now. Short and sweet, part two and three in the next few days =)
> 
> Based on [this moodboard](https://sonderlust45.tumblr.com/post/189380419663/jonsa-modern-au-dog-park-meet-cute-sansa-has) I made ages ago, but never got around to writing the fic for

Tiny snowflakes are beginning to fall from what should be a bright almost-spring sky, making the world from outside the window of Sansa’s tenth story apartment look instead like a winter wonderland. She lets out a groan and checks the temperature outside on her phone, disappointed to find it far below freezing. Moving to the kitchen, she puts a kettle on to make some tea in an attempt to at least pretend she is warm.

It’s true that Last Hearth is not really known for its heat, and she had known that when she’d moved here from Winterfell last year. Yet the fact that it is snowing in March is enough to make Sansa rethink that particular decision.   
  
She curls up on her couch and bends back the spine of a new book she picked up over a month ago and still hasn't had the chance to read. There are probably a thousand other things she should be doing – cleaning the apartment, catching up on homework, calling her mother and father and letting them know she's fine – but the book that has sat on her coffee table for a month has finally sparked her interest, and she knows if she doesn't read it now, she probably never will.

It's a strange habit of hers, picking up books that catch her eye, then inevitably never reading them and sending them to the bookshelf to sit there proudly, mocking her. Sometimes she wonders if it’s a sort of testament to all the things she had planned to do, but never did.   
  
Just as she settles in and wraps a blanket around her legs, she hears the soft scratching sounds and accompanying grumbles that mean her dog, Lady, has finally woken up. Most dogs wake with the sun, but Lady has always been delicate in everything she does – despite being a Siberian husky – and seems to enjoy her beauty rest.  
  
Lady pads in from the bedroom to the living room and lets out a languid yawn, promptly causing Sansa to yawn as well. "Good morning miss," she says softly, as Lady leans against the couch for Sansa to scratch that spot behind her ear that she never can seem to reach on her own.  
  
"What do you say we stay inside today, it's snowing and I'm cold." Her voice is scratchy from disuse, but there’s something about when it sounds like this that she secretly enjoys; as though maybe with this different voice, she might be a different person, the kind of person who reads every book they buy.  
  
But as soon as the words fall from her mouth she knows she's made a fatal mistake. Lady understands the word snow, and it might just be her favourite thing other than steak. Her ears perk up, and she lets out a quiet whine, those soft blue eyes staring into Sansa's soul. Sometimes she thinks that Lady must know that those sad eyes get her what she wants, because they always seem to look a little sadder when Sansa is about to say no.  
  
"Please, can't we just stay inside today?"  
  
Lady lets out another soft whine, except this time it's a little louder, and a little more desperate. She pads up to the front door, and paws at the wood, whining once more.  
  
Sansa gives one last glance at the first page of her book, trying to read the first sentence for the fourth time over, before Lady scratches once more at the door.  
  
"Fine, you win."  
  
The book falls to the coffee table, and she laments yet another book destined for the shelf, never to be read.

* * *

  
  
Almost a year ago now Sansa moved to her new apartment in Last Hearth, to a new school and a new beginning. That was when she found Lady at an animal rescue too; it had been a sort of kinship at first sight.

She still remembers walking up to the metal bars and sticking her fingers through to scratch behind Lady's ear, even though the staff had told her not to. She had known that Lady would never hurt her and had taken her home that day.

Ever since then, almost every day her and Lady have gone to the same dog park. It's close to the apartment, just the right size, and close enough to the street that she feels safe. A long time ago that probably wouldn't have been part of her criteria, but she tells herself that it’s a small adjustment that one day she won’t even notice.

Life this year has been all about adjustments, about learning how to fit the mismatched corners of her old life into the new one she wants to build. Her new apartment may be smaller than the one in Winterfell, but it has a security guard, and Dontos always helps her carry up her groceries. And sure, the university at Last Hearth is not as renowned as Winterfell, but it’s the diploma she needs, not the prestige.   
  
Lady begins to tug at her leash, insistently pulling Sansa the final ten feet to the gate. As soon as it's open, she bounds inside so fast that she almost sends Sansa flying face first into the inch of snow that has gathered since morning. Luckily, she catches herself at the last minute, her boots finding footing in the frozen mud.  
  
"What has you so excited," she grumbles as she undoes the leash, only for Lady to bound forward once more and make a beeline for the back of the park. 

She shakes her head and takes her time walking towards Lady, figuring she is chasing a squirrel or a rabbit, kicking at the snow on the ground as she walks.

The sky is covered in a blanket of soft grey clouds so thick it's impossible to tell where one begins and another ends, and a cold wind has started to rip through the peacoat she's wearing.

 _15 minutes,_ she thinks, _and then we're going home.  
_  
As she gets closer to the big grey blur of Lady though, she is surprised to see not one dog, but two, wrestling with each other. Lady isn't very social, and it's rare enough for her to share a ball, much less wrestle with another dog.

The other dog is bigger than Lady, but also a husky. He stands in stark contrast to Lady though; his fur is bone white, and his eyes are deep red. She's not sure she's ever seen an albino husky before, and she can't decide if he is beautiful or startling, or perhaps both.  
  
"Is the other husky yours?"  
  
Sansa's head snaps up and her heart begins to beat wildly out of her chest. She looks around frantically to locate where the voice came from, and whirls round on her feet, almost slamming into a blur of a man only a few feet from her. Instinctively, she takes several steps back, and he lifts his hands as though to catch her from falling.  
  
His face pulls into a soft, hesitant smile. He isn't tall or particularly large, and his smile is warm and kind; but still she can feel her breath coming in short, stochastic breaths, lungs still recovering from panic.

She wonders if he can tell that he scared her, before his smile falters and his eyebrows furrow in concentration, and then she knows that he can. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you, was just picking this up." He gestures at the telltale green bag and throws it out into the garbage bin beside her.

Now that he’s closer and she can think over the sound of her heart beating, she can see that he is handsome. Not a little handsome, where she might steal a few extra glances out of the corner of her eye, but so handsome that she feels a little thrill run through her just looking at him, so handsome her mind betrays her and pictures what if would feel like to run her hands through the lazy brown curls that seem to frame his face.

Though she hadn't noticed it when he first spoke, now she is keenly aware of how his voice reminds her of home; a slight Northern lilt only found in Winterfell. It's been a year since she was home, and something in his voice brings her back there, to winters with her brothers and sister; to snowball fights and hot chocolate, to curling up round a fire in pajamas, to feeling safe and happy and warm.

"It's okay, I'm just – I just – you surprised me is all. Yeah, that's Lady." She gestures to the grey blur of fur running around the albino husky, tail wagging in excitement.

A queer look of interest pulls his eyebrows ever tighter until they're practically knotted together; and it should look silly except it only serves to draw her to eyes like slate warmed by summer sun. She can barely tell where his irises end and his pupils begin, and it makes him look almost sad, as though he’s seen the world the way she has too. 

She wonders if she's staring, drinking him in for far too long, before he clears his throat awkwardly and looks back to their tangle of dogs.  
  
"Looks like Ghost has made a friend."

"Lady never plays with the other dogs, I guess she likes him too," she replies, meeting his gaze once more.   
  
"Well maybe she just hadn't met the right dog yet. I'll come back here again another time so they can play some more." The man offers her another smile that makes her forget she was ever cold.

The thought of seeing this man again is almost too much to bear, simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. The way he looks at her is making her feel things she hasn't felt in over a year – or maybe ever – and he looks kind and reminds her of home. Somehow she just knows that if she leaned in he'd smell of the soldier pines that spread so far and wide across the North.

But still, there is a small, quiet voice in the back of her head that tells her all the things she doesn't want to hear, reminds her why she had to move to Last Hearth to begin with, and before she knows it the smile fades from her face.

His own face falls in response, and he lifts a hand to brush windswept curls out of his face. The hand then moves down to scratch at a close-cropped beard in a disarming sort of way, and it gives her hope, makes her think that maybe he's nothing like – she pushes the name from her mind, having decided long ago that it was time to move on. 

"Shit, I just mean – I just moved in down the street, and this park is closest for me and Ghost." He bites at a lip that looks impossibly soft, and she can't help imagining herself kissing this stranger with kind eyes who seems almost as unsure as her.  
  
Her cheeks flush at the thought, and her heart is now beating out of her chest for a completely different reason, a rush of heat spreading through her to her toes.

"Oh. Yeah, it would be great to let them get to know each other a bit better."

Soft crows’ feet form in the corners of his eyes, and he bites at that lower lip once more; she can't help but stare at the way his teeth sink into it.  
  
 _I think I'd like to get to know you better too._

She turns, embarrassed, only to see Lady wrestle Ghost to the ground, pinning him down and letting out a playful yelp. She watches the man's eyebrows quirk up in amusement at the sight, and that only serves to increase her embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, she's usually not so forward." Sansa moves to break the two apart, but he shakes his head smiling.

"No, let them be," he breathes, voice almost teasing in tone. "I think he likes it."

Sure enough, the next minute Ghost has Lady pinned, and the two dogs descend into a rolling mess of fur and wagging tails. 

His words repeat in her mind, along with the playful tone, and she wonders if he might be flirting with her. She's surprised to find she wants to flirt with him too.

"I didn't catch your name," she says, trying to sound nonchalant while her heart sits squarely in her throat. She hasn't done this in so long that she thinks she may have forgotten how.

"Jon. Jon Snow." He holds out a bare hand to shake hers.

"How fitting," she replies, pulling a glove from her hand, instantly regretting her words. "Sorry, I guess you probably get that a lot in the winter." _Smooth move, Stark._

He lets out a quiet snort. "Yeah, kind of, but I don’t mind it from you."

His hand reaches out to hold her own, warm, calloused skin scratching against hers. She finds herself lingering in his grasp.

“My name is Sansa.”

He gives her an easy, lopsided smile, still holding her hand in his. “Sansa.” The way he says it is as though he's testing her name out on his tongue, rolling it around like wine; before he finally seems satisfied and releases her hand. 

She immediately misses it's warmth.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been over a month since Jon first met Sansa at the dog park near his home, and in that time he’s seen her almost every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strangers to friends before it can be friends to lovers, right?
> 
> \--
> 
> A little later than promised – I've been dealing with work stuff all day.

It’s been over a month since Jon first met Sansa at the dog park near his home, and in that time he’s seen her almost every day. It had taken everything he had not to ask her out that first day – or at least ask for her number – but something about her had told him it would be too soon, that she wasn’t ready. So instead he had made a plan to ask her the next time he saw her – and he was going to make sure that was soon.

Unfortunately, for the first few days after he had missed her, though he hadn’t been sure if he was too early or too late. But one day Ghost had grumbled and steadfastly refused to leave the park, even though he was cutting it dangerously close to making Jon late for work.

It had been worth it in the end when he had seen Sansa walking towards the park, hair turned to fire in the early morning sun, Lady pulling at her leash. She had given him a small, tentative smile when she’d seen him, and his heart had begun to race in a way that had become so unfamiliar to him.

He had forgotten what it felt like; that lazy thrill of excitement dancing through his body, unable or unwilling to let go as long as her eyes were on him. How long had it been since he’d felt like that? His first kiss? The first time he told a girl that he loved her? Or maybe never, not like this.

But what they have feels like a fragile balance and he’s terrified of upsetting it, that one day he’ll cross over some line in her head or her heart and he will never see her again. He hasn’t even been able to ask for her number, so instead he’s rescheduled his entire life around the hope of running into Sansa at the dog park.

He knows now that she never comes before the sun is fully up, and never when it has set. He's also learned that she likes flat whites with nutmeg on top even though it isn’t winter anymore, and he happily brings her one each morning. 

Each day they meet she reveals another small piece of herself, and he can feel himself falling just a little bit more. Jon loves the way that she always wrinkles up her nose when she picks up Lady’s poo, and the way he caught her waiting around the park that one day he was late. He loves the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous, and the way her eyes light up when she’s excited.

More than anything though he loves the way that her cheeks flush when Lady gets a little too playful with Ghost. It makes him wonder if she thinks about doing those things with him, if she wonders what he tastes like too.

Sometimes he catches her eyes linger just a little too long on his face, and that truly makes him wonder if it’s a friend she wants after all. And that one morning when he had dropped by the park with Ghost during a run, her eyes had definitely traced up and down the lines of his body, watched how his old soccer jersey had clung to his chest with sweat.

That had sent him to think all manner of things, picturing those soft red lips against his own, letting his fingers tangle up in miles of auburn ribbons, the weight of her in his arms. 

He knows now too that Sansa is a painter. One day she had shown him some of her work on her phone, crowded in so close he could catch the scent of citrus in her hair. In her paintings he can see the sadness hanging off the ends of each brushstroke, melded into the blues and purples that she loves to use.

It’s as though she’s carved out her heart onto the canvas, etched into the sides of mountain peaks, in the quiet calm of frozen lakes. Long ago when he was in school, one of his teachers had told him that art comes from suffering – but he wants to believe that maybe it can come from healing too.

Like him, Sansa grew up in Winterfell. Except while he moved here for work, she moved here for a reason that makes her sad. She doesn’t talk about it much, her past or what made her leave, but he knows that it involves an ex-boyfriend, and whatever happened was messy at best.

Whenever she seems close to talking about it though, she tightens her face til she looks as though she’s made of porcelain; thin enamel finish hiding a hundred hurts that he’d give anything to help heal.

Instead, Jon must tell himself that he is her friend, that it’s not his job to help her heal – only to listen to what she says even when she isn’t speaking. If that is all he can do, he is happy just to be near her.

Today is a Thursday, which means that Sansa doesn’t have class until 11am, which in turn means that she will walk into the park in sweats, having just rolled out of bed. Sometimes he thinks she does it on purpose, trying to make him late for work.

She knows now that he is a professor at her university, and she likes to tease him endlessly for it, asking if he wears those tweed blazers with the leather elbow patches. He has yet to admit that he does in fact own one – one of only 3 blazers he owns – and judiciously wears to special lectures and events.

He is thankful they’re in different departments, and hopes she never sees him there, or he fears it would ruin whatever semblance of attraction she may actually have for him.

Just as he suspected, Sansa shows up at half past 8, her hair tied up in a lazy bun, and as always Lady is pulling to get to Ghost. Ghost too, is pawing at the gate, desperate to get to her.

She’s taken to calling Ghost Lady’s boyfriend, and some part of him is exalted by the words, while simultaneously wanting to rip out his hair because if the dogs can be dating, why can’t they? Whenever she says it every muscle in his body tenses, and even Ghost has begun to notice.

As soon as the gate is open, Ghost has tackled Lady to the ground, and they are rolling around without a care in the world. Sansa walks up to him, and gives him her best carefree smile, but he sees the bags under her eyes.

“Rough night?” He asks, as he passes her a flat white. She takes a sip and her eyes close in bliss.

Her eyes open again, and while she is still smiling, it’s not the same. It’s restrained now, held back tight within herself. He wants to tell her to just be free; but he knows it’s not his place.

“You could say that.” Her teeth scrape over her lower lip, and for the hundredth time Jon wishes it were his teeth scraping over her lip, wishes he could wrap his hand round her neck and pull her in and tell her no one will ever hurt her again, not as long as he draws breath. “Sometimes I feel like it’s one step forward, and two steps back.”

“Sansa,” he begins, taking every opportunity to feel her name on his tongue. “I wish you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

She gives him a withering look that tells him her parents have already told her the same thing and he decides on a different approach.

“Okay, well maybe you could just turn around,” Jon says, miming out the action. “That way it’s actually two steps forward, and only one step back.”

Sansa rewards him with an incredulous smile and shakes her head. “That doesn’t even work as a metaphor. Are you sure you’re a professor?”

“I never said I was a good one.”

“Whatever you say, Professor Snow.” When she laughs this time, he can see the stress come off her shoulders, and the furrow in her brow doesn’t seem quite so severe.

It’s all Jon can do to suppress a groan at the thought of her calling him that in a _very_ different context. Suddenly his head is filled with the image of Sansa draped over his desk, and him between her legs, kissing every inch of her body.

She smiles and turns to watch Lady and Ghost fighting over a particularly choice stick, content to watch them and slowly sip her drink. He hopes she doesn't suspect the horrible, wonderful image that is in his mind – that he will be revisiting later tonight.

Jon takes a swig of his own coffee to distract himself, watching the way the morning light makes Sansa almost glow, etching her outline into the back of his eye.

He wonders how long it’ll be before she feels like she’s moving forward again; or if he even feels that way for that matter. He had never pictured himself teaching at Last Hearth when he’d been in grad school – but then again if he’d never come here he’d never have met Sansa either.

“It is getting easier though,” she says softly, not making eye contact, choosing instead to watch the two huskies run over to greet an overly friendly corgi, and quickly decide that their own company is much preferred. “The good days outnumber the bad now. I decided to go home and visit my family this summer. It’ll be the first time since I left, but – I think I’m ready to go back, at least for a couple weeks.”

Jon’s heart feels like a balloon filled so full that it might burst. He wants her to be happy, to feel free to be where she wants to be, but what if this is just a first step to moving back home? If she leaves Last Hearth for good, he may never see her again. He tries and fails to dispel the thought.

After a time, Lady and Ghost are both so tired that they finally lay down panting together. Jon checks his watch and realizes he’s almost late for his 10am lecture again, and hurriedly calls Ghost to him.

He turns to Sansa, who is still smiling at the early spring sun, and somehow she looks less weary than she did when she entered the park. “I’ll see you tomorrow right?”

“Yeah, tomorrow. Bright and early – wouldn’t want to make you late again,” Sansa replies airily.

“I won’t be late; I’ll just have to run fast.”

“Don’t forget your soccer jersey then.” The smile she gives him is almost coy, and he wants to imagine for the hundredth time that she is flirting with him, but still he can't be sure. He makes a mental note to wear the jersey more often, as he turns to walk away.

“Jon?” She calls, and he nearly whips around, hoping for something, anything, though what he can't be sure.

“I – I’m glad I met you.” Her cheeks redden, and she quickly corrects herself. “I mean, I’m glad that Ghost and Lady found each other. It means so much that she has a friend.”

 _A friend_ , he thinks, _and nothing more._

He resigns himself to another night alone in his apartment, dreaming of Sansa’s hair splayed out across his pillow like a flaming banner, to the way that she must taste, and what she sounds like when she moans.

The worst part is imagining her the next morning with a tangled mess of hair, wearing his t-shirt and cuddling in close. It aches at something deep in the hollow of his chest.

* * *

“You’re 28 now, Jon, you’d think by now you’d know you’d know how to ask out a woman,” Sam says, with all the knowledge of dating that a man who married his highschool sweetheart apparently has. Jon takes his words with a grain of salt, looking to Sam’s wife Gilly for support.

Sam is another professor at Last Hearth, and they had met in passing a couple months back. Sam has been teaching here for the past 3 years and had taken Jon under his wing. He was the kind of person who would give everything he had to make all those around him succeed.

Somehow, he was also the kind of person that shows up minutes before class having forgotten his VGA cable. So together, they have each other’s backs. 

Normally, he’s eternally grateful for their friendship, but every once in awhile Sam likes to get in his head that he knows what Jon needs in his life – which is apparently Sansa – and knows exactly how to make it happen.

Jon sighs and runs his hands through his mess of hair, letting his head rest on his elbows sitting squarely on the dining room table. Gilly gives him a sympathetic look but doesn’t say a peep in his defense.

 _Traitor,_ he mouths, with more than a hint of sarcasm, and she just shrugs at him, those brown doe eyes looking far too innocent for the grin on her face.

“You don’t get it Sam, she’s not just a woman. It’s different. She’s not like Ygritte or Val, or any other girl I’ve dated. The minute I met her, the minute I shook hands with her, I just knew.”

“Knew what?” Gilly interjects with a smile like a Cheshire cat.

Jon feels the tips of his ears redden slightly. “I just knew, okay? Not everything needs to be codified or qualified. I just –” He stops abruptly as the words solidify in his mind. _I think I’m falling in love with her._

Sam and Gilly give each other knowing looks that only serve to frustrate him even more.

“Jon, I know you’re taking it slow for Sansa, and trying to be respectful of her past, but if neither of you ever say anything then you’ll be stuck like this forever. Is that what you want?” Gilly asks.

 _Gods no_ , he thinks. This month has been torture, and the idea of another month or year like this is more than he can take. Besides, what if she moves back to Winterfell and he misses the chance?

“But what if she isn’t ready? What if by asking her, I ruin everything?”

He tries to imagine his mornings without her smile, without those bright blue eyes watching him patiently as he espouses the inevitability of the fall of the Targaryens all those hundreds of years ago.

It’s impossible to think of life without Sansa now, and isn’t that part of the problem? She’s so ingrained now, so routine, seeing her is like breathing – and how can he live without breathing, how can he risk losing her now?

Sam nods slowly, a sage expression on his face. “You’re not her knight in shining armour, Jon. It’s not your job to protect her from everything the world has to offer. And if she’s really the one and she isn’t ready, she’ll tell you, and hopefully someday she might be ready.”

Jon rakes his hands through his hair again, staring at the heavy wood grain of the table, lest he face two pairs of all-knowing eyes. “What if she never is?”

“Then she never is, but either way you won’t know until you ask.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter will be coming up soon. It'll be a bit longer than these two so I can fit in all the ~~smut~~ plot =)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The two of you are friends in the same way that Ghost and Lady are friends; in that none of you are friends and you all need to get a room.”
> 
> “Marg!” Sansa yelps out, trying to push the thought of having Jon in her bedroom out of her mind. But then it’s only replaced by the thought of his bedroom, and in her mind he has soft silk sheets and a king size bed, and he’ll keep her lying there happily for a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me more than a week to get this to you guys, I've been struggling to write smut a bit. Hopefully, this 6000+ word smut and fluff-fest makes up for my delay =)

Sansa walks into a small but lavish café decorated bone white, with only a living wall and shiny copper-coloured stools surrounding a small bar to provide colour to the room. The place screams the sort of understated sophistication that her friend Margaery is accustomed to.

Her grandmother was some sort of – well it’s not really clear at all to Sansa what Margaery’s grandmother was, but evidently, they hold a lot of land down south in the Reach. They lease the land out to farmers and sell little pieces here and there to developers, and overall it has made the family more money than Sansa cares to think about.

It would probably be enough to hate Margaery for, except that she is kind and generous, and has a wicked sense of humour unlike any that Sansa has ever encountered in Winterfell. In the year that she has been in Last Hearth, Sansa has only made a few friends, and of them, she has become closest with Margaery.

She turns to see Margaery sitting in a booth, long brown locks twisted into painfully neat waves that fall around her face just so. Sometimes she thinks that Margaery may have a hairstylist on call – most of the time she’d rather not know the answer.

Margaery sees her and jumps from the booth, running up to give her a hug. As always, the scent of rosewater clings to her in a pleasant, heady sort of way, and she kisses Sansa on each of her cheeks.

“Come sit! I’m so glad you could join me for brunch,” Margaery drawls in her usual sing-song voice. “I didn’t know what you wanted so I got you a latte and a mimosa.”

Sansa sits at the booth and eyes up each drink in turn, before settling on the mimosa, much to Margaery’s delight. She needs courage for this conversation, and maybe it is crazy to ask Margaery Tyrell for relationship advice, but these were desperate times.

Margaery clinks her glass against Sansa’s and takes a large gulp that empties a third of her glass, beaming as she does. “So, how are things going with not so tall, but oh so very dark and handsome?”

“It’s good, I guess,” she replies, swirling around the mimosa in her glass. When she was younger, she had never realized what a loaded word good really was. She knows now exactly what it means though; it’s not so bad to complain about it, and yet bad enough that it’s too hard to pretend it’s better.

The worst part is that knowing Jon has been so much more than good, it’s changed almost every part of her life. He is warm and patient and careful, and he makes her believe that there are decent men still in the world.

It’s just – he doesn’t seem to realize how she really feels, or maybe he does, and tries to ignore it. The latter thought sits heavy in her chest, a constant nagging ache that will not go away.

Margaery’s eyes narrow and stay fixed on Sansa as she orders her Saturday standard – smoked salmon eggs benedict – and even after they have both ordered she keeps looking at Sansa.

“Did you see him again today?” She says finally.

“We see each other every morning,” Sansa replies, “at the dog park.” The last part feels less a clarification, and instead as something almost scathing on her tongue.

She longs to run into Jon in the hallways of the university, to see him ordering coffee from the café across the street from the park – to see him somewhere or anywhere else that might break this pattern they’ve created that she both craves and loathes in turn.

“How strange that both of you magically have the same schedule every day,” Margaery says, taking another sip of her mimosa.

Sansa feels rather like a rabbit being led into a trap, though she hasn’t figured out yet what that trap is. “It just worked out like that I guess.”

“You know, up until a month ago I never knew Sansa Stark to ever be up and out walking Lady before noon, and here we are at 11 am and you’ve already been to the park and back, and had time to make it here to meet me.”

Sansa can feel her cheeks redden under Margaery’s scrutiny. “It’s good for Lady to have a friend. I don’t want to take that away from her.”

“Yes, we all need _friends_ don’t we? Especially when those _friends_ are hot professors that let themselves be late for work just to spend time with you.”

Her cheeks only redden further as she imagines Jon in front of a class, hair askew from running to make it on time, a neat button-up carving out the lines of his chest. She hates that she has his body memorized and hates how often she wonders if he thinks about her that way too.

“That was one time!” Sansa protests in a feeble sort of way. Margaery has the scent now, and while it’s not how she pictured the conversation going, she allows herself to hope that it could be a means to an end, to some sort of clarity or step forward with Jon.

“The two of you are friends in the same way that Ghost and Lady are friends; in that none of you are friends and you all need to get a room.”

“Marg!” Sansa yelps out, trying to push the thought of having Jon in her bedroom out of her mind. But then it’s only replaced by the thought of his bedroom, and in her mind he has soft silk sheets and a king size bed, and he’ll keep her lying there happily for a week.

Margaery studies her for a minute, her face shifting from a cheeky grin to something far more solemn. Sansa recognizes the look, feels her muscles tense as she prepares herself for the question that she knows is coming.

“Is it cause of what happened in Winterfell?” Her tone has become cautious, each syllable drawn out slow and careful. “Are you not ready for anything more yet? If that’s what it is, it’s okay you know. I have a feeling he would wait as long as it took.”

Sansa takes a deep breath, Margaery’s words lingering in her mind. She tries to imagine what it would feel like to be ready, or if anyone is ever really ready for something like this. How could she even begin to tell Jon what he really means to her?

“I know that Jon is not Joffrey, I know that in my heart and my head, and I know he will never hurt me in any way. It’s more than that too though. I feel like knowing him has helped me, and I’m thankful for his friendship, but –“ Sansa falters, and takes another sip of her mimosa, hoping for some kind of strength or clarity at the bottom of the glass. Instead, a waiter comes and refills the glass as soon as it is empty, and she cannot decide if that is better or worse than the empty glass. “–I want more. And the thought of maybe losing him for wanting more is just…” _Unthinkable_.

The thought of not seeing him every morning is like tearing a piece from her. It’s not that he has become routine, or maybe it is, but it’s more than that too. It’s like when she sees him, she doesn’t need to force her old life into this new one and instead all the mismatched old pieces fall into place.

“Do you really think he just sees you as a friend? Do you honestly think that?” Margaery asks, incredulity dripping from every word.

“I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know how to read him at all.” She thinks that maybe she does though; she’s seen his lingering glances, and the way his eyes had turned wide and dark when she’d called him professor. It’s just – she’s been so wrong before that she doesn’t trust her gut anymore.

The waiter brings them their plates, and Sansa begins to shove frites in her mouth to avoid answering any more of Margaery’s questions, but Margaery catches on to her, and pulls the plate away.

She tilts her head to the side slightly, studying Sansa. “Did you ever think of just asking him if he liked you too?”

The words sound so simple, and in Margaery’s world it probably would be – or maybe it wouldn’t, if she could just feel how it feels inside Sansa’s heart, inside her mind.

Margaery cocks an eyebrow at Sansa. “Because I guarantee you, he does. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already dating anyway – except for the whole sex part, which is honestly the best part, so I can’t see why he’d say no to that.”

Sansa feels red as a beet as she looks around the now crowded room, desperately aware of just how well Margaery’s voice carries through the din.

Yet now all she can think about are dark silk sheets, and Jon laying her down on them, planting soft kisses down her body til he reaches the tops of her panties. She can almost feel the scratch of his beard against her skin, the way his fingers would graze against the cotton, the grin he’d give her as he’d pull them down.

She looks up to see Margaery staring at her with that single impeccably arched brow, biting back a grin.

* * *

The next day, Sansa shows up early to the park with Lady. She hadn’t been able to sleep all night, thinking about what Margaery had said the day before at brunch, thinking about all the ways her life has changed this year, how far she has come, and whether she is ready.

Some mornings when she wakes up and looks out her window at the sun rising, she no longer feels like she is just getting by, just surviving. And when she thinks back to who she was in Winterfell, to where she is now, it makes her think that she just might be stronger than she ever thought, and that thought makes her smile, because it gives her hope that maybe she is moving forward, even when it doesn’t seem like it.

When she had moved out of her parent’s house and decided to move to Last Hearth for a fresh start, everything had been new and terrifying. She remembers how it had felt that first night in her apartment when she had cried alone on the floor, and how it had felt to assemble all her furniture alone. There were half a hundred failed dinners, and a knife under her pillow for the first six months.

But now, she also remembers how it had felt to bring Lady home and care for her and watch her thrive. Now she knows how it feels to do things for herself, and that she can.

She knows now that she is strong enough to break down and rebuild, and from that comes not a fearlessness, but more of a steadfast assuredness. She knows that no matter what happens, she will be able to build herself back up again.

It’s that thought combined with Margaery’s advice that gets her out of bed this morning. It’s that thought that makes her put on her favourite cableknit dress, because it is spring, and she doesn’t have to worry about hiding herself away anymore, doesn’t have to cover up a dozen old, yellowed bruises – won’t have to ever again.

It’s that thought that brings her to the park half an hour early, that makes every nerve in her body feel frayed as a livewire when she sees Jon walking up to the gate.

He’s wearing a navy blue jacket over a black pullover, and tight jeans that only serve to fray her nerves even more. When he looks up to see her, there is surprise in his eyes that is quickly replaced by a smile that stretches across his entire face, turning his eyes upwards to hide behind the apples of his cheeks.

She knows that she should feel nervous for what she is about to say, what she’s about to do, but the sun is shining so bright and warm, and flowers have begun to bloom in the trees and bushes around the park. And more than anything there is something so reassuring about his smile, about the way it lops just slightly to the side – about everything that is Jon.

And every morning he is here, no matter what – from the snows to the rain, and everything in between. Maybe that part is most reassuring of all.

Lady lets out a howl from across the park and bounds quickly over to the gate, where Ghost is already dancing on the other side. As soon as his leash is off and the gate is open, they dash towards each other and collapse into a tangle of grey and white fur, and she can’t help but laugh.

“You’re here early,” he says, voice still thick with morning fog, all gravel and scratch, making her think of what it would be like to wake up next to him, and hear that voice first thing.

“I am,” she replies, and she can hear her voice begin to falter now. She is afraid that she will lose the courage, that it will slip away like a dream as she wakes. A hundred doubts and fears from another life find their way into her heart, and all she can think of is how sad she would be to not see him tomorrow, and the next day after that.

Somehow, like he always does, he seems to sense the fear that sits in her chest, gnawing at her. Eyes like summer storms look into her own. “Is something wrong, Sansa?”

“Will you be here tomorrow?” She asks, after a pause.

Jon furrows his brow in confusion. “Yeah, of course. I’m here every morning.”

“And the day after that? No matter what?” She can hear the quaver in her voice, can’t help but wonder what he must think of her, but he only cocks his head to the side and smiles again.

“No matter what. Unless I broke both my legs I suppose,” he says with a deep chuckle, scratching behind his neck with that abashed air that he seems to always carry.

It’s these words that finally give her the strength she needs to see this through, because she knows the reason why she will come here every morning unless the gods themselves saw fit to stop her, and she thinks that maybe it’s the same as his.

“Why?”

This time when he looks at her, she sees something she hasn’t seen before. It’s a small spark of flame in his eyes, flint to a fire.

He takes a step forward to her, and she feels half a mirror, taking a step forward too.

“Sansa.” Her name hangs in the air long after the syllables leave his mouth, and she can finally hear that what she’s been so afraid has not been there, has been there all along.

She bites at her lip, gathering up all the courage that she never knew she had until this year. “I need you to say it.”

He takes a final step closer to her, and his hand meets hers. It’s the first time they have touched since they shook hands that first day, but it’s as though her hand remembers the shape of his, remembers the warmth of him. Her eyes turn up from where their fingers touch to his face, only inches from hers.

From here she can count the crinkles around his eyes, can see the way his eyelashes touch his cheeks when he blinks.

“I come here every day just to see you,” he says finally, and she can scarcely hear the words over the beating of her own heart. “I – I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“I think I love you too,” she whispers through a smile that she feels from her head to her toes.

His free hand comes up to cup her cheek, fingers splayed across her neck. “I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s okay,” he mumbles; he’s so close now she can feel his voice rolling in his chest.

Soft lips meet her own, so tentative at first that she is barely sure that he has kissed her at all. When she returns the kiss, he increases the pressure, and she can feel his lips pressing against hers in earnest now, can taste the faint hint of mint on his tongue as it slips beside her own, feels his fingers working backwards to tangle in her hair.

The closer he pulls her to him, the more aware of his warmth she is, and she feels lifted, enveloped in a scent of mint and soldier pines, and the feeling that her heart is about to burst, because she is sure now that she has never felt like this before.

As he deepens the kiss, Sansa lets herself lean against him more, lets her own fingers twine around the dense mess of curls that frame his face, lets him push her against the fence, where he can kiss her in earnest. It strikes her that for someone who seems so shy, his tongue is anything but, and his kisses only become deeper until she can feel her lungs burning from lack of oxygen, but she doesn’t care and keeps kissing him anyway.

Suddenly, she is pulled away from him by the sound of the gate clicking loudly, and she is surprised to see an older woman looking at them, mouth agape. She can feel her cheeks redden, and can’t help looking at Jon, at his dishevelled hair and kiss-swollen lips, and she wonders if she looks the same.

Now that they’re apart, the woman shakes her head and walks to the far side of the park.

They both erupt into laughter, giddy like children who’ve eaten their stash of Easter candy without permission, knowing they’ll be caught, but not caring either.

Jon leans in so close she can feel his breath hot against her neck, and it makes her shiver. “Let me take you out on a proper date,” he whispers, and she can feel herself nodding, but all she can think of is how can they possibly wait that long, they’ve already wasted so much time talking when they could have been doing this the whole time.

“When?”

She can feel him grinning against the skin of her neck, can feel his touch turning it to gooseflesh. “Whenever you’ll have me, wherever you’ll have me.”

Her mind wanders back to the image of dark silk sheets, and no matter how hard she tries she cannot dispel the thought. “Dinner tonight, wherever you want to have me.”

As the words leave her mouth, she can feel his fingers tighten in her hair, can hear his breath hitch. He begins to leave soft open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin of her neck, and it takes all she has to suppress a moan that threatens to escape her mouth, to resist the urge to clench her thighs tight and relieve the throbbing pressure that resides there now.

“I’ve been told I’m a great cook,” he murmurs, and she laughs. He pulls away then, looking at her with those fathomless eyes of his. “Sorry, it’s too soon. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

“No,” she replies, biting at her lip once more, “I want to watch you cook.” When she looks back up to his eyes, he looks ready to devour her, and the thought of that is endlessly appealing.

* * *

Sansa stands outside the door to Jon’s apartment, holding a bottle of wine in one hand, and Lady’s leash in the other. It’s a nice, modern building in a nice area of town, and she can’t help but feel desperately out of her comfort zone.

Before she can second guess herself and leave though, Lady lets out a loud bark that is quickly returned by Ghost, and the next minute Jon answers the door. He’s wearing the same pullover and jeans from earlier in the day, except he has pushed up the sleeves around his forearms and his hair is even more of an unruly mess than usual.

As always, Lady bounds forward as soon as she unclips the leash, bounding in past them to greet Ghost.

Jon smiles and gestures for Sansa to enter, closing the door behind her. She can feel her muscles clenching, poprocks in her stomach as the distance between them closes. Warm hands reach around her waist and pull her to him, and he places a soft, chaste kiss on her lips.

It should calm her, to have the reassurance of his hands on the small of her back, wrists tucked tight against her hips, but instead it only intensifies everything she has been feeling, because it is real, and she is here and Jon is here, and her heart is beating wildly out of her chest.

He pauses just far enough away that she can almost see herself reflected in the dark grey of his eyes, before he leads her to the rest of the apartment, and begins to open the wine.

His apartment is modern, but cluttered, such that she can see signs of him everywhere she looks. One entire wall is covered in bookcases packed full of textbooks and paperbacks and old leather-bound books that seem to scream out to her to read. She wonders if she’ll get the chance.

On one wall hangs a map of Westeros, and below it is an antique globe of the world. She spins it slowly on its axis, feeling the bumps and dips of mountains and valleys, watching all the names of places she’s never seen drift by like a dream.

Jon walks to her and hands her a glass of wine, letting himself stand flush behind her, one hand following her own on the globe.

“Have you ever been to Essos?”

“No,” she replies sadly, and she thinks he can tell her tone, because his hand falls to rest over hers.

“We could go, together, some day, if you wanted. I’ve never been either. I’ve always wanted to see the Doom of Valryia, to see what happened there for myself.”

Sansa turns herself around to face him, her hand still clasped neatly below his. “Jon Snow, are you asking me to go on vacation with you?”

He rewards her with a deep chuckle and a lopsided grin that looks a little more cheeky than she is used to. “I’d ask a lot more of you, if I didn’t worry what you’d think of me,” he replies, eyes roaming up and down her, making her very glad to have chosen another dress to wear.

Just then, an alarm goes off on the oven, and Jon rushes over to pull a roasted chicken from the oven. Sansa watches him filling their plates with chicken and some sort of risotto, and he gestures for her to sit at the table, where Lady and Ghost are already sitting expectantly, waiting for scraps to fall. 

When they finish what is a surprisingly good meal that Sansa has to admit is probably better than anything she can cook, she clears their plates and brings them back to the kitchen before Jon can protest.

She is rinsing the plates off when she feels his hands snaking around her waist again, turning her around to face him.

This time she decides to take the initiative and kiss him, enjoying the taste of red wine on his lips, and the way his fingers tighten around her hips as he deepens the kiss. He deftly lifts her up so she is sitting on the counter and he is slotted in between her legs, and she thinks that she shouldn’t encourage him, but instead she scoots forward so she can feel the friction of him pressing hard against her.

He lets out a soft groan and pulls away, near breathless and lips stained red from the wine or from her lipstick, she can’t be sure, can’t really bring herself to care.

“Gods Sansa, I should stop,” he groans into her throat, breath hot against her skin. “Just tell me to stop, and I will. It’s just, I thought I’d never get the chance, and now that I have, now that I know you feel the same way, I can’t seem to stop myself.”

“I thought the same thing,” she replies, “I thought I wasn’t ready.”

Jon pulls back from her, and she can’t help but smile at him because her fingers have only messed up his hair even more, and all she can picture is how much more she can mess it up, of what else that mouth can do, of everything she has been denying herself since the day that they met.

“Are you not ready?” She can see his throat muscles tighten along the length of his neck as he swallows, can feel the strength in his body pressed against her. “It’s okay if you’re not ready, I will wait as long as it takes.”

“No, I’m ready,” she replies softly, cradling his face and relishing the soft scratch of his close-cropped beard in her hands. 

His forehead falls to hers, hands skimming up and down the soft fabric of her dress. She pulls him in for another deep kiss, letting his tongue explore her own, her arms encircling his neck, as he pulls her legs around his middle and lifts her into his arms, carrying her to the bedroom.

Jon places her lightly down onto a king bed that is everything she has imagined in her mind and more; soft sheets, plush duvet, pillows like clouds, and Jon standing over her looking like having her in his bed is a dream come true.

For a time, he just kisses her still, until her mouth is so tired, and her lips are chapped and swollen, and she can feel everything inside of her coiled tight like a spring, every touch of his fingers against the fabric of her dress a torture.

His fingers tease their way back to the zipper of her dress, while his tongue licks a lazy trail up her neck, pausing to nip at the lobe of her ear.

“Is this okay?” He half growls, and she can only nod, can only tug on his shirt for him to do the same. Clothes fall to the ground haphazardly until they are only in their underwear, and she can feel her heartbeat throbbing between her thighs. It’s almost embarrassing how long it’s been since she’s had sex, even longer since she’s felt this way about it – if ever at all.

It’s only when his head dips down, and his fingers begin to tug at the cotton of her panties that she can feel her body begin to freeze, that she second guesses herself. Words and taunts from another life come bubbling up, and she wonders if Jon will say what’s been said to her before; will he think her cold too? 

He senses her hesitation, and moves away slightly, head tilting up to reveal those soft, grey eyes, and the fear begins to subside.

“I can stop,” he says softly, pressing a single kiss to her stomach, almost reverentially.

“No,” she croaks, “please don’t stop.”

He smiles against her skin and moves down to kiss her mound through the fabric. She can feel the vibration of his groan against her, and it sends the coiled spring inside her to wind only tighter. “You’re so wet for me, Sansa.”

She can feel herself falter again, embarrassed by her body, and her reaction to him. “Is that okay?”

“Fuck, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He pulls her panties down slowly, pausing to kiss each newly uncovered inch of skin, and she is sure that she has never been worshipped like this, has never even thought that sex could be like this. When her panties join the rest of their clothes on the ground, he switches from kisses to deft licks and flicks of his tongue, and her entire body shakes with the feeling of his tongue against her clit.

“Oh gods, that feels good,” she moans, feeling her cheeks redden from her words.

He looks up at her from between her thighs, another coy smile pulling across his face. “Has no one ever gone down on you before?”

It’s too hard to let the word escape her mouth, so instead she just shakes her head, and covers her face with her arm in embarrassment as another loud moan escapes her lips.

The feeling of his tongue licking against her clit, and against the folds of her pussy is almost more than she can take, until he adds a finger, thrusting it inside her slowly. Suddenly, she can feel herself clenching around him, can feel her heart stutter and that familiar spark explode within, leaving her tingling with the aftershock of her peak, smiling like a fool.

He pulls himself up beside her, pressing small kisses to her breasts, her neck, her cheeks. Her fingers trace the lines of his chest, revelling in the softness of his skin, and the hardness of muscle that lays just beneath.

“How did you get so good at that?” She breathes out, biting at her lip.

“How has no one ever done that for you before?” He counters, leaning over to kiss her again.

Her mind drifts to the thought of what would happen next, what has always happened when she has had sex before, but as she does, she can see Jon’s face turn slowly to a frown.

“We can – if you want,” Sansa replies, gesturing between them.

Jon shakes his head, and his nostrils almost flare in anger. “We will never do anything you don’t want to do, Sansa. I wouldn’t want to unless you did.”

Sansa bites at her lip and looks into Jon’s eyes, and within them she sees the truth of his words.

“And what if I want what you just did again?”

Jon lets out a laugh, and leans over her, taking each nipple in his mouth in turn, nipping lightly and making her buck up and cry out in pleasure, as his fingers begin to slowly trail down her body again.

* * *

It’s been nearly a week since their first date, and every night since then Sansa has slept over with Jon.

She knows they are moving fast, but after seeing each other in the park every day for over a month it’s as though she already knows everything about him, nothing has ever felt more natural in her life. And the wonderful things that he does with that tongue of his help too.

Sansa wakes up in the middle of the night, long after they’ve both slipped into sleep. It’s so late now that the only light in the apartment comes from streetlights and passing cars, which blink and stutter dull yellows and reds that paint the bedroom walls. 

It's hard to see Jon’s face in the low light, but she can tell that he is smiling in his sleep, would give him her whole heart to know what it is he is dreaming of; but then again, she thinks that she already has.

She quietly disentangles herself from his limbs, and swings her legs over the bedframe, touching the cool wood floor. She fumbles around on the ground, looking for her shirt, but instead can only find Jon’s. Slowly, she slides the soft well-worn cotton over her head and gathers her mess of auburn hair out from under the collar.

Walking to the kitchen, she pauses to see Ghost and Lady curled up in a corner together, fast asleep and happier than she’s ever seen them.

Sansa takes a glass from the counter and fills it with some water, drinking it down as quickly as she can, so she can return to the warmth of the bed, to strong arms and the scent of soldier pines, to soft silk sheets, and everything that is Jon.

He is half-awake when she returns to the bed and lays back down, and already his hands are tracing the hem of the shirt, fingers peeking underneath to find nothing at all below the cotton.

“I can take the shirt off,” she half whispers, half moans, as Jon carefully folds the fabric up to place soft kisses on her stomach, her thighs, and the top of her mound.

“No,” he growls, barely even bothering to lift his head from between her thighs. “I like you in my shirts, I like knowing there’s nothing underneath.”

His tongue darts between her folds with soft, flat licks of her clit that make her moan his name and nearly forget her own. One day, she is going to have to find out how he got so good at this, at what else he’s good at, at what he can teach her.

The thought of kneeling in front of him in a classroom while he’s dressed in a suit, and taking his cock in her mouth so he can teach her what he needs is enough to send her over the edge, moaning and tugging at his curls.

She can feel the low rumble of a chuckle from Jon, as he lifts himself from between her thighs and kisses her long and slow and deep. She can taste herself on his tongue, and it only serves to increase her need, to make her want more.

Her hands drift through his hair, down the muscled planes of his back, and dig into the cheeks of his ass, pushing his growing erection against her. There is something about Jon, about the way he lets her set the pace that makes her more comfortable, more bold than she’s ever been in her life.

She moves her hand down his boxers to curl around his cock, feeling the warm throbbing of his cock combining with her own need.

Jon groans and lets his forehead dip down to hers, his hands skating up her sides to cup her breasts.

“Are you sure?” He asks, and his voice is so strained that she wonders if he would explode if she said no. But instead, she knows that if she said no, he’d stop, and the power that lies in that knowledge is more than enough to make her feel safe and comfortable in his arms.

It’s in how he lets her take control, lets her set the pace, lets her fingers pump his cock, and seems content with only that. It’s enough to make her feel the need for him in every muscle of her body.

“I think, if you have a condom, it might be good to get it,” Sansa says tentatively, in between his kisses.

Jon leans over the nightstand and grabs one from a drawer, placing it on the bed. He sits up on his knees, looking down at her, the sparse light from the windows tracing the muscles of his chest and torso. “Sansa, are you sure?”

“Yes.”

It’s enough to make him lose control, and he dips his head down again to lick at her clit until she is whining and writhing once more below him. Only then does he let her slip the condom over his cock and lead it to her entrance.

“Now?” He asks, his voice strained and tight as the head of his cock patiently presses against her.

She can’t help but smile at the furrow of his brow knit so tight that he looks almost in pain. “Now,” she replies, biting back a loud moan as he kisses her long and deep just as his cock enters her. She can feel her body stretching to accommodate him, the pleasure-pain of him filling her to the hilt, his tongue twining around her own.

Jon fucks her slow and deep; languid thrusts that make her toes curl, and her fingernails dig into the muscles of his back.

Her mind is gleefully blank, focused only on the way he is kissing and biting and licking the crook of her neck, on the way his hand is trailing down to draw slow circles around her clit, on pleasure that is building inside her like waves coming to crest.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans into her neck in between little nips of skin that send tingles down her spine, making her clench around him, only causing him to groan even louder, and make her smile in spite of herself.

Jon pulls himself from her neck and looks down at her, dark eyes looking into her own, soft hair framing his face, just the slightest sheen of sweat on his brow.

“So do you,” she replies, letting her hands memorize the smooth skin of his back, pulled tight with the combined effort of holding himself above her while circling around her clit, as she cranes up to kiss him once more.

His thrusts become faster and deeper, and his fingers speed up around her clit until she is moaning so loud that she knows his neighbours will hate him, but it feels too good to care in this moment. Everything else has dissolved away except the way his cock fills her up so tight and deep she can’t think about anything else, and she can feel her body peaking around him, letting herself collapse into it.

Jon follows seconds later, and she can feel him pulse inside her, feel the heat of it and of him, as he nearly collapses on top of her. He rolls over onto his side, pulling her along with him, holding her tight.

She wants to tell him that she knows she loves him now, that he’s stuck with her now, because she will never leave this bed, never leave him as long as he loves her like she loves him. She wants to tell him a hundred things that are too hard to say aloud, but instead she lets her head hit the pillow beside him and curls into his warmth.

There will be time for all of that later, but for now she is happy just to lie here with Jon a little bit longer.

Sansa can feel herself drifting off to sleep in Jon’s arms, can swear she hears him murmur something soft and low, though she can’t quite discern it. Her muscles grow slack, and her head fills with cotton, and all she can think of is how long ago when she was a kid, her mother told her that love is like a wall; that it’s built up slowly, brick by brick over months and years til it is so strong it can withstand any storm. She falls asleep thinking that maybe love is a road too, that it’s a path leading us home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi and feel free to drop me prompts [on Tumblr!](https://sonderlust45.tumblr.com/)


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